Trace Memory Part 1

Trace Memory.

by David Llewellyn.

November 1953.

It was a foggy night in Tiger Bay. The moon, jaundiced by the fumes of industry, reflected like a shimmering penny in the black sea of the channel, while the fog-smothered silhouettes of warehouses stood out like tombstones against the night sky.It was a cold night, too, and the four of them shuffled from foot to foot and clapped their gloved hands together in an effort to keep warm. All of them Frank, Wilf, Ha.s.san and Michael were thinking of hot baths and warm beds, and a few hours' sleep before they'd be back at the dock and waiting for another ship to come in. They shouldn't have been there at this hour, a little after midnight, but orders were orders, and besides, the boss had promised them extra pay for their efforts.Even so, Frank, a burly man with a face full of burst capillaries and a tattoo of a naked woman on his right arm, had been complaining about it for much of the night. What was the point of a ship coming in to dock for one measly little crate? What was so b.l.o.o.d.y important about this crate in the first place?Wilf was a little more complacent about being there. His wife was a dragon, and everyone knew it. No wonder he seemed more than happy to be standing on the edge of the dock at this unG.o.dly hour, smoking Woodbines and talking about the football.Ha.s.san didn't say much, but then he never did. His English was still a long way from perfect, and when he swore it was usually in his native Somali. At twenty-six, he was closest in age to Michael, but tall and broad across the shoulders; quiet but handsome, with dark inscrutable eyes and a smile which, though it only made very rare appearances, lit up his face.Michael was twenty-four, the youngest of the group. He was still referred to, by the others, as 'the lad' or 'the boy', being baby-faced and awkward; curly black hair and blue eyes, and a faraway dreamy look, as if his mind were often elsewhere. Though they had worked together the best part of eight years, he was still the target of their occasional jokes, both verbal and practical. His first few weeks in the docks had been full of pointless errands, like the time they'd sent him away to buy tartan paint, or the time they'd told him to pick up an order of sky hooks. Tonight the focus of their ridicule was Michael's date with Maggie Jenkins.It was a date he hadn't even wanted to go on in the first place, having been coerced into it by his friends and workmates. He'd taken her to the Capitol Cinema on Queen Street to watch a double bill of Destination Moon Destination Moon and and The Day the Earth Stood Still. The Day the Earth Stood Still. After the films, they had gone for a milkshake at Mario's on Caroline Street, where Michael had tried to do an impersonation of Richard Burton after Maggie told him how much she loved the actor's voice. Sadly it hadn't worked. She'd laughed and told him he sounded more like Paul Robeson with a cold. After the films, they had gone for a milkshake at Mario's on Caroline Street, where Michael had tried to do an impersonation of Richard Burton after Maggie told him how much she loved the actor's voice. Sadly it hadn't worked. She'd laughed and told him he sounded more like Paul Robeson with a cold.'Didn't even get your hand in her blouse?' asked Frank, lighting up another f.a.g and chuckling. The others laughed, even Ha.s.san, who seemed to have an innate understanding of dirty jokes, if little else.Michael blushed and shook his head. He didn't like it when Ha.s.san laughed at him, but he was used to it by now.'Look out, lads. Here she comes,' said Wilf, pointing out at the sea. There, coming through the shallow fog, was the grey hulk of the Facklatrafat, Facklatrafat, a Swedish cargo ship. It was only a small vessel, by the standard of some of the ships out there, but still, to Michael and the others, it seemed awfully big for just one crate. a Swedish cargo ship. It was only a small vessel, by the standard of some of the ships out there, but still, to Michael and the others, it seemed awfully big for just one crate.Only a few hundred metres away, two men stood in front of the red-brick, gothic facade of the Pierhead Building, watching the progress of the Facklatrafat Facklatrafat as it came in closer to the dock's edge. In physical appearance, they could hardly have been more different. The younger of the two, Valentine, was tall, gangling almost, with his hair Brylcreemed back above a high forehead. A deep scar made a canyon of the left side of his face, starting in one corner of his mouth and travelling all the way up to the top of his ear. The older man, Cromwell, was short and stout, dressed in a trench coat and trilby. At a pa.s.sing glance, he resembled the actor Orson Welles, all owl-like intensity and beady eyes. as it came in closer to the dock's edge. In physical appearance, they could hardly have been more different. The younger of the two, Valentine, was tall, gangling almost, with his hair Brylcreemed back above a high forehead. A deep scar made a canyon of the left side of his face, starting in one corner of his mouth and travelling all the way up to the top of his ear. The older man, Cromwell, was short and stout, dressed in a trench coat and trilby. At a pa.s.sing glance, he resembled the actor Orson Welles, all owl-like intensity and beady eyes.'I still don't see why they couldn't wait for Nelson-Stanley to bring it back to London,' said Valentine, sniffing and rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.Cromwell breathed heavily and looked up at his companion.'Nelson-Stanley is in the Arctic for another three months. We couldn't leave it there that long. Not that close to the Russian territories. If the word from London is to be believed, those b.l.o.o.d.y Reds were already looking for it, although how they knew about it is anyone's guess. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d Philby, most likely, or one of his lot. Careless talk and all the rest of it.''Right you are, Mr Cromwell. Right you are.' Another sniff, another wipe of his nose. 'So how big is it?''How big?' said Cromwell, chuckling to himself. About the size of a football, so I'm told.'A football?' asked Valentine. 'A ship like that for something the size of a football?'Absolutely, Mr Valentine, absolutely. You know what they say. It's not the size that counts...'Valentine smiled, but only on the right side of his face.The crate was now only twenty feet off the edge of the dock, being lowered on a thick hemp rope. On the deck of the Facklatrafat, Facklatrafat, one of the crew hollered to the crane operator, 'Sakta! Sakta!' one of the crew hollered to the crane operator, 'Sakta! Sakta!''Can you hear something?' said Frank.'Yeah,' said Wilf. 'Someone talking in Swedish.' Frank tutted. 'No, not that, you b.l.o.o.d.y idiot, something in the crate.'Wilf c.o.c.ked one ear towards the crate and frowned. 'No, Frank, I can't.''Listen. Listen a minute. Can you hear it?'Michael followed Wilf's example and tilted his head so that one ear was aimed towards the crate. Frank was right. He could could hear something. A strange, throbbing sound; familiar and yet at the same time unlike anything he had heard before. hear something. A strange, throbbing sound; familiar and yet at the same time unlike anything he had heard before.'Yeah,' said Michael. 'I can hear it.''Me too,' said Ha.s.san.The crate was lower now, low enough for Ha.s.san, who was taller than the others, to be able to touch it if he stood on his toes.'Shaking,' he said. 'Like inside, there is something shaking.''Look, mate,' Frank called up to the man on the deck. 'What's inside this thing? What's that noise?''Jog forstr inte,' the man replied, shrugging.'b.l.o.o.d.y marvellous,' said Frank. 'They all speak double Dutch. Fat lot of use that is to us.''It's getting louder,' said Michael.The crate lowered further, so that it was now only a few feet from the ground.'I still can't hear anything,' said Wilf.'No, well you wouldn't,' said Frank. 'You're b.l.o.o.d.y deaf from your wife nagging you all the time.' The others laughed, and that was when the crate exploded with a blinding flash of light, and a force great enough to rock the ship towards its starboard.Michael was blasted across the edge of the dock, one side of the crate hitting him face-on and carrying him ten metres until he fell to the ground with a heavy thump. A plume of intense heat erupted from the other side of the crate, sending a shard of wood through Frank's throat and a heavy iron nail into Wilf's chest. Ha.s.san was blown from the dock into the side of the ship. He was unconscious when he landed, face down, in the water.As fragments of burning wood and sawdust scorched into cinders rained down around the dock, another object came clattering down onto the cobbles: a metal sphere, no bigger than a football, and ruptured on one side. Had anyone been conscious to see it, they would have noticed a dull glow the colour of burning sulphur, and heard the sound of that throbbing as it grew quieter and quieter. The glow too died out, leaving just an empty metal sh.e.l.l.It was mere moments before Cromwell and Valentine arrived on the scene. Cromwell was out of breath from running, but Valentine had barely broken a sweat. All about them were the bodies and the burning remains of the crate. On the deck of the ship, the Swedish crew were swearing and cursing, but neither man could understand them.'A bomb?' suggested Valentine. 'The Russians?''I don't know,' said Cromwell, 'but we need to clear this up, and we need to speak to the crew of that ship.'He stalked across the dock, toward the dull metal sphere that lay among the debris.'They're dead,' he said, looking down at two of the bloodied corpses. 'Fewer witnesses.''Not all of them,' said Valentine.Cromwell turned and saw Valentine lifting a heavy panel from on top of one of the bodies.'This one's alive.'Valentine hauled the panel clear of the unconscious young man and dropped it clattering to the ground. There was one word stencilled on its charred surface.Torchwood.

ONE.

Sundays were never Sundays at Torchwood, or at least not most of the time. Jack couldn't remember the last time he'd had a Sunday which felt how Sundays were supposed to feel. Wasn't Sunday the day when normal people ate slapup breakfasts, took the dog for a walk and then spent the rest of the afternoon reading the papers?But then, Captain Jack Harkness wasn't 'normal people' and, at Torchwood, Sundays were more likely to be spent doing work which the people of Cardiff, and indeed most of the six billion people on the planet, knew nothing about.This Sunday was different. On this particular Sunday, Jack had even had a chance to clean the SUV. This was normally a task he'd delegate to Ianto, or anyone except himself but, if today was going to be one of the few boring Sundays he'd ever get to experience, he was going to spend it doing all the things normal people did.The Rift was quiet. He'd had Toshiko spend much of the morning and afternoon checking all the equipment, making sure there wasn't a fault. As it turned out, there wasn't. Everything was working, the readings were accurate. The Rift, it seemed, was taking a day off. Having checked and double-checked everything, and satisfied herself that Rift activity was at a minimum, Toshiko was now looking into what she described as a 'low-resonance electromagnetic pulse' coming from the bas.e.m.e.nt.'Anything for me to worry about?' Jack asked, as he walked aimlessly past her workstation in the centre of the Hub.'No, Jack. Probably nothing. I've picked it up once or twice before. I'm just trying to work out which one of our extraterrestrial toys toys it's coming from.' it's coming from.'Though her endless fascination with the occasionally dull minutiae of her job was sometimes baffling to Jack, he found it curiously rea.s.suring, and so he left her to her work.What he couldn't understand was why Gwen was still here. It was now a little after eight on a Sunday evening, nothing was happening, and yet she was still here, searching through files on her computer with the listless look of a teenager browsing through YouTube in the early hours of the morning.'Now come on, Gwen,' said Jack, placing one hand on her shoulder, and putting on his best 'concerned parent' voice. 'The rest of us have excuses. We don't have lives. You do. What are you doing here?'Gwen looked up at him with a scowl and a sigh that he wasn't quite expecting.'Rhys,' she said. 'I . . . I just . . .''Arguing?''Yes.''Let me guess . . . About work?''No, actually.'She huffed again and returned her gaze to the dull glow of her monitor.'So what was it about?''Sofas.'Jack took his hand off her shoulder and laughed through his nose, before realising that Gwen didn't find it funny.'Sofas?' he said, trying hard to sound serious.'Yes. Sofas. We went shopping yesterday afternoon to look for a sofa. I wanted this red one, he wanted this cream white leather thing that . . . G.o.d, it was just so tacky... Anyway...' She sighed. 'Sofas.''So there's a part of the world that still argues about sofas?' said Jack, still maintaining a veneer of sincerity. 'In a city which is home to one of the most active rifts in time and s.p.a.ce this side of the Milky Way, you still argue about sofas?''What's that supposed to mean, Jack?''I mean... It's a sofa. Why don't you go home to Rhys, and... I don't know... get a takeaway and . . . do couply stuff. Aren't you meant to be enjoying love's young dream, what with that ring on your finger and all?''Jack, I'm working...''Gwen, there's no work to do. I've just cleaned the SUV, I've tidied most of our hard drives, I even changed a bulb in my office earlier.''You cleaned the SUV?''Yes.'Gwen laughed, putting one hand over her mouth.'You . . . cleaned the SUV?''Yes. Is that so hard to believe?''I'm just imagining you like Jessica Simpson in that video...''Well, why don't you take your mental image, and go. Go on. That's an order. And where's Owen?''Down in the Vaults.''Tell him he can go too. It's the quietest night we've had in a year and you're all still here. You're insane. All of you.'Gwen sighed and quickly shut down each application on her computer. She picked up her coat and, waving goodbye to Toshiko from across the Hub, made her way down to the Vaults.Of all the parts of Torchwood, it was the Vaults that Gwen liked the least. She knew from past experience that it was possible for a place to physically soak up strong emotions. Somewhere in his safe, Jack had a machine capable of reading these things, but even without that device Gwen believed it was possible to sense the bad feelings left behind. When she was fifteen, she had gone on a history trip with her school to Germany where they had visited one of the old concentration camps. The atmosphere had been chilling; no sound of birdsong, no sound of anything, in fact, except their footsteps. It had seemed colder, too, the minute they had pa.s.sed through the gates.Though the scale and context were quite different the Vaults in Torchwood reminded her of that feeling; the sudden plunge of temperature, and a strange melancholy which she couldn't quite place. It was as if she felt sad for all the people and creatures who had ended up in those cells; scared, and angry, lost and alone.It made it all the more mysterious that Owen should want to spend the whole afternoon and evening down there, sat on a stool, peering through the gla.s.s of one of the cells at Janet.Janet was a Weevil; that is, an occasionally carnivorous life form that had slipped through the Rift and into Cardiff's sewers. Occasionally, one or more of the Weevils would come up to the surface, and sometimes they developed a taste for something other than the effluent diet on which they usually survived.'Hey, Owen,' said Gwen as she stepped down into the dark and narrow corridor that ran alongside the cells. 'What you up to?''I'm writing a musical about my experiences with Torchwood,' said Owen. 'I'm gonna call it "Weevil Rock You".''Oh, Owen, that's not funny,' said Gwen, laughing. 'What are you really up to?''I'm keeping an eye on Janet,' he said. 'Something's wrong with her.''Her?''Her. It. Whatever.''So what's wrong?'Gwen looked into the cell. Janet was stood in the corner, shoulders hunched, facing the wall. Every so often, it would make a low, gurgling sound, and paw at the damp brick wall with one hand.'That,' said Owen. 'She keeps doing that. Every twenty-six minutes. Then she'll sit down, and maybe try and sleep or something, and then bam twenty-six minutes later, she's back up.''Exactly twenty-six minutes?''Yeah. For the last four hours.'Gwen shook her head and sighed.'Jack's right,' she said. 'We're all insane. It's a Sunday night, and you're here watching the resident Weevil, Tosh is upstairs doing... I don't know... Tosh things...''Ianto?''I don't know. I haven't seen Ianto.'Ianto Jones was at his station behind the run-down Tourist Information Centre that served as a front to the clandestine goings-on in Torchwood. His bare feet were on his desk, his tie slumped like a crestfallen snake next to an open pizza box, the top two b.u.t.tons of his shirt undone.'Taking it easy, I see?' said Jack, stepping out through the security door that led into the Hub itself. 'Well, at least someone has the right idea. Whatcha doing there, Sport?''"Sport"?' said Ianto. 'Not sure I like "Sport" as a term of endearment. "s.e.xy" is good, if unimaginative. "Pumpkin" is a bit much, but "Sport"? No. You'll have to think of another one.''OK, Tiger Pants. Whatcha doing?'Ianto laughed.'I...' he said, pausing to swallow a mouthful of pizza, 'am having a James Bondathon.''A what?''A James Bondathon. I'm watching my favourite James Bond films, in chronological order.''You're a Bond fan?''Oh yes. He's the archetypal male fantasy, isn't he? The man all women want to have, and all men want to be.''Are you sure it's not the other way around?'Ianto raised an eyebrow and took another bite of his pizza.'Hey,' said Jack. 'I'm sending everyone home. There's nothing happening here. The Rift is still giving out minimal readings. Gwen's going home, Owen's going home, and I think Tosh is almost done.''The place to ourselves?''Well...' said Jack, grinning.'So long as it's not going to interrupt my James Bondathon. I've only just started watching Goldfinger, Goldfinger, and I haven't even reached the bit where Shirley Eaton gets painted gold yet.' and I haven't even reached the bit where Shirley Eaton gets painted gold yet.''OK... Well, I'll just say goodbye to Owen and Gwen, and tell Tosh to wrap up, and then-'Jack didn't have a chance to finish his sentence. Even if he had, it was doubtful Ianto could have heard him, as the air was pierced by the shrill sound of the alarm.'What is it?' Ianto asked, his fingers in his ears. 'Fire?''Jack...' It was Toshiko, speaking over the comms. 'We've got an intruder.'Gwen and Owen were leaving Janet and the holding cells when the alarm rang out and they heard Toshiko's voice.'Owen, Gwen, I need you up here immediately. We have an intruder. Hurry!'Owen bolted out through the door and Gwen followed. Together, they ran through the dark, dank corridors of Torchwood until they came out into the Hub. Toshiko was standing at her workstation, pale and stunned.'What is it?' asked Owen. 'Who's here?''There's somebody in the bas.e.m.e.nt,' said Toshiko. 'I was monitoring the pulse, and then... I checked one of the cameras, and there's a man down there. Where's Jack?'On cue, Jack entered the Hub with Ianto. Seeing Ianto with bare feet and a dishevelled shirt, Owen turned to Gwen and raised an eyebrow, but it did nothing to calm her nerves. How could somebody have got into the bas.e.m.e.nt? More importantly, who or what what was in there? was in there?As Toshiko turned off the alarm, Jack ran across the Hub to her workstation and looked down at the monitor.'It looks like a man,' he said. 'It looks human, at least. Tosh . . . How the h.e.l.l did he get in there?''I don't know, Jack. I was tracing the pulse, and I narrowed it down to Bas.e.m.e.nt D-4. There was nothing there, and then... and then the image turned to static, and when the picture came back he was there. I've scanned the whole room; he's definitely human.'The image on the screen showed the bas.e.m.e.nt, filmed from an upper corner. In the dim light, Jack could just about see a man, sat on the ground and hugging his knees.'And the pulse,' said Toshiko. 'It was temporal before, coming and going, but now it's constant. I thought it might be an electromagnetic wave, like radiation, but I'm not sure. It's not like any kind of radiation I've seen before.''OK,' said Jack. 'I need to go down there.''I'm coming, too,' said Owen.'No you're not,' said Jack. 'We could have the human equivalent of Chern.o.byl sitting in our bas.e.m.e.nt if Tosh's readings are correct. I need to go down alone. I need a Geiger counter.'Toshiko ran to her workstation and opened a drawer, rifling through her collection of screwdrivers, soldering irons, and pliers.'Here,' she said eventually. 'It's charged.'Jack took the counter from her and headed out of the Hub. As he ran past, Ianto tried to say something, but couldn't. It was no use; none of them could stop him at a time like this. It was times like this that reminded them exactly whose organisation this was. They might be a team, and a team that had coped without him, but he was still the one in charge.'I was so bored,' said Gwen. 'I actually thought at one point, "Please let something interesting happen, I'm so bored".' She shook her head, and turned to Owen. 'Remind me never, ever to think that again. I was so much happier when I was bored.''Liar,' said Owen.Jack stepped down towards Bas.e.m.e.nt D-4. It was the first time he'd been there in a very long time. Even in a building this sealed off from the outside world, there was still a lot of dust. Dust, and spiders' webs, and all the evidence, if it were needed, that life finds a way of getting into even the most apparently sterile environments. It unnerved Jack a little to think, if spiders could get in, what else might be able to get out.Worse still, the Geiger counter was picking up next to nothing. If the electromagnetic waves weren't conventional radiation, that left only one possibility as far as he was concerned, and he didn't want to consider what that meant. As he neared the entrance to D-4, a metre-and-a-half-thick steel door, he brushed those thoughts away as easily as he had the spiders' webs. Someone was on the other side of the door. Someone that didn't belong there. He had to stay focused on that. Someone had got in through a room that hadn't been opened in thirty years or more. Someone was in there, and alive, in a place where the oxygen itself was stale and about as old as his staff.Jack punched a code into a panel at the side of the door, and waited four seconds before he heard the locks clank open inside. The door opened, and it sounded as if the room itself were breathing in. A gust of cool, fresh air (or as fresh as the air in Torchwood could be) swept in, and that old, dry, dusty air came out. Jack had, in his time, been in far too many crypts and sepulchres, of many different kinds, on many different worlds, and that was exactly what this felt like. It felt dead.'h.e.l.lo...' said Jack, taking his revolver from its holster and holding it at his side. 'h.e.l.lo... Can you hear me?'His voice echoed around inside the room, but no reply came.'OK... I'm going to come in now. But I warn you I'm armed.'As he stepped into the room, he saw the same figure that he had seen on Toshiko's monitor, a man hunched over on the floor, still holding his knees to his chest.'h.e.l.lo?' said Jack.There was something about the man's clothes that was familiar to him. They didn't belong in Cardiff in 2008, that was for sure. He'd seen clothes like that many years before, the kind of utility clothes that everyone had after the war; drab and grey and lacking in any kind of ostentation.'Are you OK?' said Jack. 'I'm not going to hurt you.'He thought he could hear sobbing.The man on the floor looked up with eyes bloodshot from tears and an expression of absolute terror, and Jack gasped. He dropped his gun to the ground, and fell back against the wall of the vault.'Michael...' he said.

TWO.

'Jack?'He'd been sitting alone in his office for ten minutes, while Owen and Gwen were taking Michael from Bas.e.m.e.nt D-4 to the Boardroom; ten minutes in which he had done nothing but think, and yet those thoughts were still so clouded. How could he have allowed himself to be blindsided like this? How could he not have known this was going to happen?Decades spent knowing the future had, he supposed, left him with a kind of complacency; a resignation to the future and the concept of destiny. There was no point in fighting the future, or destiny, and so very little surprised him these days. Why had this. .h.i.t him so hard?'Jack?'He looked over at the door. Gwen was standing in the entrance to his office, leaning against the doorframe, smiling softly.'You OK, Jack?'He shook off his mood, at least on the outside, and smiled back.'Yeah. I'm fine,' he said. 'I'm just glad our guest doesn't have six arms and a penchant for human flesh.'Gwen laughed.'You sure you're OK? I was watching the monitor, when you were down there. You looked like you'd seen a ghost.''Yeah.' He paused, and then, with greater certainty, said 'Yeah. I'm fine. How is he?''Michael?'Jack took a deep breath. 'Yeah. Michael.''He's fine. A little shaken up. A little disorientated. But he's OK now. Owen's giving him his usual, sensitive bedside manner. You know how Owen is.''By sensitive bedside manner I take it you mean the third degree?''Something like that.' Gwen smiled, but the smile faded quickly. 'We've established that his name is Michael Bellini and that he's twenty-four. He said you knew his name.''What's that?''Michael. He said you knew his name. He said you called him "Michael".''He must have been confused.''Are you sure?' asked Gwen.'Yes.''Oh. Because... I thought I recognised him. I don't know where from, but it's like deja vu or something. Or like when you see somebody you recognise off the telly.''I don't know him.'Gwen nodded, biting her lip. What was Jack hiding? He'd been so secretive about so many things, and every time it put her on edge. She trusted him, they all all trusted him, but sometimes it was as if they didn't know him at all. trusted him, but sometimes it was as if they didn't know him at all.'So are you coming down?' she asked.Jack shook his head. 'No,' he said. 'Not yet. I've got a few things need doing here. You go on down. I'll join you as soon as I'm finished.'Gwen left Jack's office and walked down to the Boardroom. Michael was sat in a chair at one end of the conference table, while Owen took his blood pressure. Ianto and Toshiko stood in the far corners of the room.As Gwen entered the Boardroom, Michael looked at her, wide-eyed and lost, and then at the others.'Here, Gwen...' said Owen, 'listen to this.' He turned to Michael. 'Who's the Prime Minister of Great Britain?''W-Winston Churchill,' said Michael, his voice barely louder than a whisper.'OK... And who's at number one in the charts?''Frankie Lane.'Owen turned to Gwen, his arms open as if he were the ringmaster of a circus presenting the next act.'Owen, quit it,' said Gwen. She looked at Michael. The young man looked so scared, it didn't seem fair turning him into a freak show.'He's from 1953,' said Owen. 'Or, to be exact, November the twentieth 1953. Churchill is Prime Minister, and Frankie Lane is at number one with... Hang on. Michael, what was that song called?''"Answer Me",' Michael replied, timidly.'Owen, I said quit it. This isn't some kind of game show.' Gwen turned to Michael. 'Do you know how you got here?'Michael shook his head.'Do you remember where you're from?'Michael nodded. 'Cardiff,' he said. 'Butetown. I live on Fitzhamon Terrace. Where am I?'Gwen looked at the others. 'You didn't tell him?'The others shrugged.Gwen sighed and leaned back against the wall. She looked to the ceiling for an easy way to say this. How could you tell someone they were so far away from home? She'd sometimes felt as lost and as scared as he did now, especially in the early days. What could she say to him? 'You're still in Cardiff,' she said at last. 'But it's not 1953. That was more than fifty years ago.'Michael's eyes filled with tears once more, and he let out a shuddering, helpless sob.'But... But that means I'm almost eighty.'No,' said Gwen, smiling gently, trying to put him at ease. 'You're not eighty. You're still you. You're just here.''But the future?' Michael shook his head. 'How can I be here? How can any of this be happening?''Wait,' said Gwen, turning to Toshiko. '1953? We've had visitors from 1953 before. Do you think this could be connected to that?'Owen looked up suddenly, his expression a curious mixture of shock and hope.'I don't think so,' said Toshiko. 'They flew through the Rift in the Sky Gypsy. Sky Gypsy. It wasn't the Rift that brought Michael here. It's clearly got something to do with the pulse that I was picking up earlier. The curious thing is, since we brought Michael here, I'm now picking up two definable sources for it.' It wasn't the Rift that brought Michael here. It's clearly got something to do with the pulse that I was picking up earlier. The curious thing is, since we brought Michael here, I'm now picking up two definable sources for it.''Two?'Toshiko nodded. 'Yes. Michael and Bas.e.m.e.nt D-4.''What does all this mean?' said Michael, growing angrier. 'You're all talking rubbish. None of this makes sense. It's a nightmare, isn't it? It's a bad dream? It's got to be a bad dream. I've been watching too many of those stupid b.l.o.o.d.y films at the pictures. All those films about flying saucers and s.p.a.ceships...''You're not dreaming,' said Gwen. 'What's the last thing you remember, before you were here?'Michael looked down at the ground, and his shoulders shook with another barely suppressed sob.It was like stepping off the roller-coaster at first, that feeling of nausea, and of senses overloaded. It took a few seconds for the white noise and for the light behind his eyelids to go away, and for him to realise that he was on his hands and knees, and that the ground beneath him was hard, and cold, and wet.Then there was the noise.He couldn't say that he had never heard it before, because he had, but many years ago. Like thunder, only it was worse than thunder. It was louder than thunder as if somebody was slamming a colossal door, and every time the door slammed the ground beneath him shook.Above that slamming sound there was the drone, that unmistakable drone, like a million angry hornets. The Heinkel bombers. After five months, they had all learnt the difference between the sounds of the British and German planes.Michael got to his feet and looked around. He was in the lane, his his lane, at the end of Neville Street. Years ago, when he was a child, he had played in this lane, flicking pennies against the wall and kicking a ball about with Tommo and Mogs. Only, he suddenly realised, it wasn't years ago. Those games had happened at the same time that German bombers swarmed overhead and the howl of air-raid sirens would send people running for shelter. lane, at the end of Neville Street. Years ago, when he was a child, he had played in this lane, flicking pennies against the wall and kicking a ball about with Tommo and Mogs. Only, he suddenly realised, it wasn't years ago. Those games had happened at the same time that German bombers swarmed overhead and the howl of air-raid sirens would send people running for shelter.The bombers hadn't been aiming for the houses, of course, they were going for the train tracks and the depot. It just happened that the houses were built around both.He stepped out into Neville Street and saw the night sky lit up like h.e.l.l. He remembered somebody telling him that the only reason the bombers got this far was that the antiaircraft guns on Ely Racecourse had malfunctioned, only that wasn't many years ago. It was now.It was 2 January 1941, and Michael Bellini was walking down the street where he had grown up as a child, a street he hadn't revisited in more than a decade. There, on both sides of the street, were houses that neither he, nor anyone else for that matter, had seen in all those years, and yet they were still standing. There, running out of their front door, were Mr and Mrs Davies, with Mrs Davies holding her pet Yorkshire terrier under her arm. There, in the middle of the street, was Mr Harris, the ARP warden, self-important in his tin helmet, barking orders at them to get to shelter, and quickly.Michael was wondering whether anyone could see him, when his question was answered by Mr Harris.'Oi, you... Lad! Get inside, quick. This isn't a walk along the b.l.o.o.d.y promenade. It's an air raid!'He had heard him say those words before; it wasn't deja vu. Michael had heard Mr Harris say those exact words, with that exact voice. Looking further down the street, past Mr Harris, he saw three figures outside the open door of number 26; a boy no older than eleven, an older girl, and a woman, her hair still in curlers.Michael thought for a moment that his heart might stop, or that he would finally, thankfully wake up, but he didn't. Running from their house and out into Neville Street, he saw his mother, his sister Maria, and himself.Mr Harris did an about-turn, and starting yelling at the three of them and, though Michael couldn't hear what he was saying over the drone of the planes and the slam and the roar of the explosions, he could remember. Mr Harris was asking them where they were going, and Michael's mother was telling him that they were going to her sister's house on Clare Road, because they had an Anderson shelter there. Mr Harris told them to hurry up while they were at it, and so they started running.Michael knew what happened next.They were halfway down Neville Street when Michael's mother stopped in her tracks. She had told him and his sister to carry on running until they reached Aunty Megan's, and then she had run back to the house. Maybe she had forgotten something.As he watched himself and his sister running to the end of the street, Michael suddenly realised that this was his chance. Maybe this was why he was here. Maybe this time it could be different. He started running towards the house he had grown up in, heedless of the sound of bombs and the drone of the planes. He ran towards it knowing what was going to happen, and he cried out: 'Mum!'The bomb didn't hit their house directly; it landed somewhere in the gardens behind their street. Michael and his sister had been on Clare Road at the time, crying and scared, not knowing what had happened.Facing it for the first time, Michael saw the explosion almost a split second before he could hear it; a blinding flash of white light and then a fireball that erupted upwards and outwards, destroying a whole row of houses as if they were made of nothing more than sand and matchsticks.The sound and the Shockwave knocked him off his feet, and suddenly everything was dark, and all he could hear was the roar of the fire and the sound of bricks, and wood, and gla.s.s raining down upon the cold, damp street.He struggled to his feet, and saw the gaping crater filled with fire where their house had been, the neighbouring houses now hollowed out like dead teeth, the street itself shoulder-deep in debris.He wiped the tears now streaming from his eyes away from his face and saw that they had been turned to ink by soot and ash. He put one hand to his chest and felt a sliver of wood sticking out of his shirt. Just touching it sent a hot bolt of pain through his chest.The Traveller...'Somebody was calling him, only they weren't calling him. They weren't even raising their voice. It was like a whisper that he could somehow hear over the din of the fire and the bombers and the sound of people screaming.'The Traveller...'He turned and saw a man walking through the flames. A man dressed smartly in a black suit and bowler hat, and carrying an umbrella.That was when he blacked out.

THREE.

'I couldn't stop it from happening,' Michael said, his head in his hands. 'I thought maybe I could, but it still happened. Everything happens.'Gwen felt herself shudder, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention, though she still couldn't quite fathom why. Owen had left the Boardroom, saying he had to 'go check something', so it was just three of them, now, with Michael.Gwen didn't want to believe a word he had said; she wanted to think it was some elaborate fantasy, and a younger, less experienced Gwen might have believed that, but she knew better. She liked to think she was a good judge of honesty, that she knew when people were lying; it came with the job. She knew Michael was telling the truth.'OK,' she said. 'Then you came here? After the explosion? That's when you woke up here?''No... I don't know,' said Michael. 'I don't think so.''And what about before...' Gwen paused. She had to word this carefully. 'Before 1941. Where were you before you found yourself in 1941? What happened in 1953?'He hadn't yet dared to open his eyes. At first, the voices were little more than a vague mumbling that seemed to echo, as if they were speaking inside a cavern or a cathedral, but eventually he could hear and recognise words.He heard a man's voice.'Well, Margaret, quite frankly if he's the one playing hard to get I'd drop him like a hot brick. Men like that aren't worth it.''I know.' A woman's voice, now. 'But I was really looking forward to the dance. He's a pig.''He's worse than a pig, Margaret, he's a swine. The silly b.u.g.g.e.r. There's half the men in this hospital would give their right arm to go on a date with a girl like you.''Half the men?''Well, half the men who aren't acquainted with musical theatre, if you know what I mean... But you know what I mean.'Both voices laughed, but stopped abruptly when Michael groaned. He was aware of pain. Pain across his chest, in his head, his neck in fact, he couldn't find a part of his body that didn't hurt. On top of that, he was dehydrated. His tongue felt like sandpaper on the roof of his mouth, and his lips tasted of blood.'Oh, somebody's awake,' said the male voice. 'Margaret, you go and get Dr Hutchins and I'll demonstrate my bedside manner.''I bet you will.'The curtain opened and, when Michael first opened his eyes, it was as if he were stood before a floodlight. There was a white flash of light, something which caused his heart to pick up pace, and then shapes and forms slowly became visible until finally he was looking up at a male nurse.'Good morning, sunshine... Now, can you just tell me your name?'Michael mouthed his name but no sound came out. His throat was still dry and he was suddenly aware of something tickling at the back of his throat. The nurse held up three fingers on his left hand.'How many fingers am I holding up?''Th... three...' Michael whispered.'Do you know where you are?'He nodded.'Can you remember what happened?'He shook his head. What had happened? Why was he in a hospital?'OK. Don't move. Just stay there... That's it... Don't want to go doing yourself an injury. Now, what's the name of the Prime Minister?''Winston Churchill.' Michael croaked.The nurse beamed down at him.'That's right,' he said. 'OK, Michael, I'm Nurse Collins. Nurse Gait has just gone to fetch Dr Hutchins. She won't be a moment.'Dr Hutchins was a balding man with pince-nez gla.s.ses and a bow tie, and a shock of white hair at the back of his head. At the top of his forehead there was an indented yellow scar that Michael thought might have been an injury from the war; the first one, that is. When he spoke, it was in the curt fashion of somebody who had served in the military, so it wasn't beyond speculation. Even so there was something kindly and rea.s.suring about him, something that put Michael at ease.'You're in the Royal Infirmary, Michael. You've been here for four days now, in body, if not in spirit. Do you remember the accident?'Michael shook his head.'What accident?' he asked.'You were working a late shift, at the docks. There was an explosion. Something to do with paraffin so your employer told us.'An explosion. He could remember an explosion, or at least he thought he could. His mind flooded with images of another time in his life when there had been fire and pain, but it wasn't that. This was different.'Fortunately your injuries do not appear to be as severe as we first feared. A few b.u.mps and scratches, and you cracked a rib, but nothing broken. Nothing we can't mend.'There was a crate. He could remember the crate, and the ship. He had been there with Frank, and Wilf, and Ha.s.san.'Ha.s.san...' he said, 'and the others. What about the others?'Dr Hutchins took off his gla.s.ses and bit his lower lip.'I'm sorry, Michael,' he said. 'I don't know how to tell you this, but they weren't as lucky as you.'Standing, Dr Hutchins turned to Nurse Collins.'Are there any family we need to notify?''Yes,' said Nurse Collins. 'His sister. She lives in Butetown. She was here yesterday.'Dr Hutchins nodded, and then looked back down at Michael. He smiled. It was a smile Michael supposed he gave all his patients, especially, perhaps, the ones he felt sorry for. As he left the ward, Nurses Collins and Gait followed, and Michael was alone.His sister came to see him later that afternoon. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she wasn't wearing any make-up. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her without make-up. Perhaps when their father had died.'I was so worried,' she said, squeezing his hand so hard it almost hurt. 'When they told me, about Frank, and Wilf, and the other boy-' 'Ha.s.san,' said Michael, tearfully.'Oh G.o.d,' said his sister. 'I didn't want to lose you. I mean, I've got Rhodri, and the baby, but you... You're my brother.'She kissed him on the forehead before leaving, and told him there would be a roast dinner waiting for him when he got home. It made him happy to see her smiling when she left.He slept badly that night. The old man in the bed opposite spent much of the night wailing, crying out for the nurses and his 'Mam', even though he couldn't have been any younger than eighty. Michael could do little more than look out through his window at the night sky and the waning moon, and think about nothing else but the crate and the explosion.He could remember everything now; the Swedish ship appearing through the fog, the noise inside the crate, and then the blast. Something had happened during the explosion, something he couldn't describe. To him it hadn't sounded like an explosion. He had heard bombs as a child, and it hadn't sounded like that. It had sounded like a ba.s.s drum, or perhaps the single ringing of an enormous bell, somewhere inside of him. His whole body had tingled as if he were being p.r.i.c.ked by hundreds of thousands of microscopic pins and, though his eyes were closed, he could still see that brilliant white light, like a billion suns; a light that seemed to pa.s.s through him.In the morning he was woken by Nurse Collins, who removed the gastric tube from his nose, which caused him to gag, and brought him a cup of tea and a slice of half-burnt toast. The old man in the bed opposite was now sleeping like a baby, worn out, presumably, by a night of anguished crying.It was mid-morning when the visitors arrived.Two men, both dressed in suits. One was in his early thirties, Michael guessed; the other looked a little older. The younger, taller man had a dramatic scar on the left side of his face and a hang-dog expression. The older and shorter man had large, dark eyes and heavy eyebrows. Sitting in a chair beside the bed, it was the older man who spoke first.'Good morning, Mr Bellini. I trust you're feeling well?'Michael nodded and asked them who they were.'My name is Mr Cromwell, and this is Mr Valentine. We work for the Union. We're just here to ask you a few questions.'Michael nodded again, but said nothing.'Do you remember anything about the explosion on Thursday night?'Michael thought for a moment. How should he answer their question? Something about this didn't feel right. They didn't look like anyone from the Union. They looked like policemen.'No,' he said at last. 'Not much. Nothing, really.'Cromwell looked up at Valentine, and then turned back to Michael. 'I see. We're still investigating the cause of the explosion. It's possible there may have been an issue with certain materials that were in the vicinity.'And that line. It didn't sound right. It was clumsy, as if Cromwell was stalling, or making it up as he went along.'Other than your injuries have you noticed any other... problems... at all?' asked Cromwell.Michael shook his head.'Any feelings of nausea? Headaches? Strange dreams?'Why would somebody from the Union need to know anything about headaches or strange dreams? Michael looked out into the corridor, hoping to catch the attention of one of the nurses. If he could only pretend to be in more pain, they might come in and tell Cromwell and Valentine to give him a little peace.'Have you experienced anything... unusual?' Cromwell asked.'No,' said Michael. 'No... I... nothing like that, no.''I see. Well, we may need to ask you a few more questions when you're feeling a little bit better. You aren't planning on leaving Cardiff any time soon, are you?'Michael shook his head.'Good. Good. Well, I think we're done for now. We'll speak to you again, Mr Bellini. Get well soon.'Cromwell stood, and both he and Valentine gave Cheshire cat grins that didn't sit comfortably on their faces, particularly Valentine's, before they walked out of the ward.Michael was released from the hospital the following day. There was n.o.body to meet him at the door. His sister was working at the cigarette factory and his brother-in-law, Rhodri, was at the docks. Though his legs still ached, he walked all the way back to Butetown in the plain, drab and ill-fitting clothes that the hospital had given him.By the time he reached the narrow and canyon-like streets of Butetown that surrounded Tiger Bay, it was late afternoon, and already he could hear piano music spilling out of the pubs. He heard the raucous laughter of the Irishmen playing cards, and the incomprehensible chattering of the Chinese women in the laundries. Children played in the streets where sailors sauntered toward brothels, while the occasional policeman turned a blind eye to anything that wasn't threatening to turn into a brawl.These sights were familiar to him by now, of course. He'd lived in the shadowy and smoke-filled confines of Butetown since his mother died. Their father had brought them down here to be closer to his work at the docks, when he was still working. Soon enough, of course, he'd lost his job; a short while after, he started drinking. They'd lived together, his father, his sister and Michael, in the downstairs of a terraced house, beneath a first-generation Italian family that argued and fought at all hours.Michael knew Butetown like the back of his hand and yet, walking back into it that afternoon, it felt as if something had changed. The buildings looked different, somehow, as if they'd been remade from a different stone. Everything seemed more real.The tiny house on Fitzhamon Terrace that he shared with his sister's family embraced him with the smell of a leg of lamb roasting slowly in the oven. He sat alone in the kitchen, drinking tea and smoking cigarettes until his sister came home, carrying his baby nephew over the threshold.'Oh, you're home!' she said excitedly. 'Let me just put Robert in his cot. Food won't be long, and Rhodri's home soon.'Rhodri was a little older than Michael and his sister, a surly and sardonic man who Michael had always found strangely intimidating. He'd never been sure what Maria saw in him, but she had always been quick to point out that without Rhodri they'd be homeless. Once he'd finished his shift at the docks, and spent the best part of half an hour soaking in the bath in the lean-to, the family sat around the table, with baby Robert in his high chair, playing with a plastic rattle and a teething ring.Rhodri was helping himself to roast potatoes when he finally spoke. 'Funny thing, that explosion,' he said, in his usual, gruff tone.'What do you mean, "funny"?' said Michael, barely able to mask his resentment.'Well, they've closed off the whole dock, and that ship's still there. There were people all over it this morning. No crew. Just people, and jeeps. Like army jeeps. Funny thing. They reckon it was a bomb.'Michael pretended not to listen, spooning carrots and then peas onto his plate before reaching across the table for the gravy boat.'No police, mind,' said Rhodri, 'which is the really really funny thing. You'd have thought, big explosion like that, they'd have had the police involved.' funny thing. You'd have thought, big explosion like that, they'd have had the police involved.'When Michael looked up from his plate, he saw Rhodri, staring at him with an expression that bordered on amus.e.m.e.nt. It was too much to hope that his brother-in-law might realise quite how much this had all meant to him; seeing his friends killed like that. Frank and Wilf. Ha.s.san.When the meal was over, Michael went to his room, barely saying another word to either Maria or Rhodri, and only managing to muster a moment's baby talk with his nephew. Lying back on his bed, he turned on the radio.They were playing that song again, that Frankie Lane song they were playing all the time. He'd thought it was the most romantic song he'd ever heard before; before all this. Now just listening to it was painful. Why did they have to keep playing it?He put his shoes back on and left the house in a flurry. His sister ran to the front door, and called after him, 'Michael! Where are you going?''Out,' he called back, sullenly. 'I won't be late.'The Ship and Pilot was a typical Butetown pub, filled with the usual Butetown patrons: a mixture of dockers, sailors and waifs and strays from every corner of the globe. Gruff old men with stories to tell sat quietly nursing their pints and playing dominos while Michael's peers took part in all the rituals of youth, knocking back their pints of Brains bitter, telling jokes, or challenging anyone within earshot to an arm wrestle.People were looking at him strangely, he could sense that much. They must have heard about what had happened, but n.o.body said anything. It was just the way they looked at him.In the far corner of the pub, they were setting up the stage for Shirley, the resident singer, and her band, but the noisy chatter of the pub carried on unabated.'What happened?'Michael looked up. It was Frank's son, Pete. He was a little older than Michael, but built like his father, a natural born sc.r.a.pper with forearms like Popeye's. The curious thing was, he didn't really look angry, and Pete almost always looked angry, like he was on the lookout for a fight. Now he just looked sad, like something inside of him had been crushed out of existence. Michael said nothing.'What happened?' Pete asked again. 'You were there with him when it happened. What What happened?' happened?''I don't know,' said Michael. 'I can't remember.''You can't remember? I...' Pete looked up into one corner of the room, breathed in deep, and closed his eyes.'Honestly, Pete,' said Michael, 'I can't remember anything. There was an explosion, and then I woke up in hospital. That's all I can remember.''But what were you doing there at that time of night?''I don't know,' said Michael. 'I don't know.'The rest of the pub had fallen quiet now, as Shirley took to the stage and opened her set with 'Stormy Weather'. Pete stared down at Michael with an intensity that scared him, signs of the Pete he knew, the angry, violent Pete, returning. Michael stood, leaving his pint gla.s.s half-full.'I'm sorry, Pete,' he said, walking out of the pub. 'Really. I'm so sorry.'He was halfway up the narrow, Victorian gully of West Bute Street, at the corner of the Coal Exchange, when he saw them.Cromwell and Valentine.They were standing in the shadows, but he could see them both. It was as if they weren't even trying to hide. He knew then for certain that they weren't from the Union.He carried on walking, gathering pace, and somewhere behind him he could hear the sound of two men running, then sounds of a car engine grumbling into life, its wheels spinning against wet cobbles.Michael started to run.He was caught in the headlights, but he didn't dare look back. Why were they chasing him?It was then that he felt it; a strange sensation starting in his feet and then creeping up his body until it reached his scalp, almost like static electric shocks. The streets around him were lit up with a brilliant light, impossible at this time of night, and everything was silent. He turned to face the oncoming car and saw that it had stopped in the middle of the street, its headlamps still glaring. Behind it, Cromwell and Valentine too had frozen on the spot, feet off the ground, as if suspended there on invisible strings. It was as if the world itself had stopped turning, just for him.Then there was the pain. A terrible pain that surged through him, throbbing and pounding him into submission until he fell to the ground, his eyes clenched shut in agony. A few seconds pa.s.sed, and with it a feeling of nausea, and then he realised that he was on his hands and knees, that the ground beneath him was hard, and cold, and wet, and that he could hear the sound of bombs.'Cromwell and Valentine?' said Gwen. 'The names of the two men were Cromwell and Valentine?'Michael nodded.'And all this happened in November November 1953?' 1953?''Yes,' said Michael.Gwen turned to Toshiko. 'Where's Owen?''He's down in the Autopsy Room. He said he had to check something.''OK,' said Gwen, 'can you go get him? We need to start looking into this.''What about Jack?' asked Toshiko.'He's in his office. Something's wrong with him. I just don't know what.'Gwen looked at Ianto, hoping he might have an answer, but he looked as puzzled as she was.'Ianto,' she said. 'Can you carry out a search on the names Cromwell and Valentine? Can't be many people in Cardiff called Valentine in 1953.'Ianto nodded stoically and left the Boardroom, and Toshiko followed.Gwen turned to Michael. 'You rest a while,' she said. 'We're going to...' Her voice trailed off.'Going to what?' Michael asked.'I don't know,' said Gwen. 'We're going to help you.'Michael looked away from her, forlorn. He didn't seem convinced by her rea.s.surance.'I mean it,' she said. 'It's what we do.' And then, smiling, 'No mystery too big, no puzzle too... erm... puzzling.'Michael smiled, for the first time since she'd seen him, and Gwen felt something, a flicker of recognition, and an uneasy sense that this was going to be a long night.

FOUR.

Owen Harper opened his eyes and saw a ceiling he didn't recognise. Not that he was an expert on ceilings, of course, but he knew his own ceiling when he saw it, and this wasn't his ceiling.Next up was the awareness that his mouth was dry. No, not just dry... His mouth was desiccated. And then there was the headache. It felt like somebody had put his head in a vice and was still cranking it up. It felt like his head was going to explode.But first was the matter of the ceiling and the hard floor beneath him. Reaching out with his fingertips, he felt the bristly surface of a carpet and, reaching further, his fingers delved into the dusty mess of an overflowing ashtray. He recoiled in disgust, and his hand brushed against the side of a can, tipping it over on its side. He heard the glug-glug-fizz glug-glug-fizz of beer pouring from the can and soaking into the carpet. This wasn't a bed, and this wasn't a bedroom. of beer pouring from the can and soaking into the carpet. This wasn't a bed, and this wasn't a bedroom.Through his one open eye, he saw a television in one corner of the room, and on the wall several posters of Johnny Depp.If it wasn't his ceiling, then it wasn't his living room, and if it wasn't his living room, then whose living room was it?The answer came in a voice from the nearest doorway.'Oh, you're awake. Did you fall off the sofa or something?'He sat up straight, and that was when his head really began to throb; a dull pulsating agony that started in his temples and reached all the way in behind his eyes. The medic in him lectured him on the dehydrating effects of alcohol, how it leached moisture from the brain, causing it to shrink, pulling on all the microscopic fibres linking it to the skull and resulting in a headache. The human in him was simply practising the art of suffering.In the doorway stood a goth girl in pyjamas. The pyjamas weren't particularly goth; pink with pictures of h.e.l.lo Kitty. She was a goth girl only from the neck up, a shock of black hair and slightly smudged mascara left over from the night before.His heart sank. Had they...?'Where am I?' he asked.'Our living room, silly,' replied the goth girl, giggling.'And... where is your living room?' asked Owen.'In our house. In Cathays,' said the goth girl. 'Near the uni.'Owen sat fully upright and, with weak arms, hoisted himself onto the sofa. He rested his head in both hands and let out a long, traumatised groan.'Hung over?' asked the goth girl.'A little,' said Owen. 'What happened last night?'The goth girl laughed again. 'You don't remember?'Owen shook his head. Even that that hurt. hurt.'Your friend's upstairs,' she said, 'with my housemate, Kirsty. I'm amazed they didn't keep you awake. They were a bit, um, noisy. noisy. Mind you, you just kind of pa.s.sed out.' Mind you, you just kind of pa.s.sed out.'His friend? Oh, that was right. A little bit of memory came back to him now; a mere shard of recollection. Lloyd was upstairs. With Kirsty, whoever Kirsty was.Owen looked at the goth girl, wincing at the question he was about to ask. 'And did anything... I mean...'The goth girl raised one eyebrow, and shook her head. 'You're fully dressed,' she said. 'Or hadn't you noticed?'He looked down at himself, and realised he was indeed still wearing all the clothes he'd worn the night before. He was dismayed to see a gory dash of chilli sauce down the front of his shirt. At least he'd remembered to take his shoes off.'And you've got a girlfriend,' said the goth girl, smiling sweetly now. 'In fact, you didn't stop talking about her. Would you like a coffee?' you've got a girlfriend,' said the goth girl, smiling sweetly now. 'In fact, you didn't stop talking about her. Would you like a coffee?'Owen shook his head. That throbbing pain again, and a sudden, violent stab of nausea. 'Um...'Work. The word exploded in his brain like a firework, like it was lit up in neon or carved in b.l.o.o.d.y great big stone lettering. Work.'Actually... I've probably got to make a move. I've got work.''Work? When?'He looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock. And his shift started at half ten.'An hour and a half,' he said, quietly. 'Where am I?'The goth girl laughed. 'Cathays. I just told you.'Owen sighed. Cathays. Just outside the city centre. It could have been worse. It could have been Swansea. He was still struggling to piece together the last few hours of the night. There had been the Cross Inn and, at some point after two or three pints, the urge to grab a takeaway and a video had left him, and they were in a taxi and heading into town. That was when it started to get just a little hazy.But Cathays wasn't too far. It was further away from the hospital than his flat and, thinking about it logically, going home first was no longer an option, which meant he'd have to go in wearing the same clothes he'd worn the day before, but that wasn't the end of the world.'Can I use your shower?' he asked.The goth girl nodded. 'Top of the stairs, first on the right. There's towels in the airing cupboard.'Owen lifted himself up from the sofa with a nauseous groan and tiptoed out of the living room, nodding a wordless 'thank you' to the goth girl before climbing the stairs.It was while he stood under the hot spray of the shower that further fragments of information came back to him. The trawl around Cardiff's coolest bars and a few that weren't so cool before they wound up in Metros nightclub. They'd looked a bit out of place, Owen and his fellow doctors, all of them in their Ben Sherman shirts and shoes, while around them kids with spiky multicoloured hair and piercings, most of them dressed from head to toe in black, bounced around to System Of A Down and Green Day.Lloyd had started talking to another goth girl, the girl he a.s.sumed was Kirsty, and then introduced him to Kirsty's friend, the girl who was now downstairs in h.e.l.lo Kitty pyjamas. Quite what Lloyd was playing at he wasn't sure; perhaps angling for some kind of orgy; Owen could never tell with Lloyd.Whatever his game was, Lloyd had persuaded Owen to join them in the taxi back to Cathays, stopping at a kebab shop en route. He'd tried eating the kebab in the back of the cab, and the driver had shouted something at him about no food and drink in the car. That was when Owen had dripped chilli sauce down his front. It was a little sketchy after that a drunken conversation on the sofa; the goth girls rolling spliffs, and then nothing. He'd blacked out pretty quickly.As Owen left the bathroom, he knocked on the door that was signposted 'KIRSTY'S ROOM' by a brightly coloured wooden plaque, and said, 'Lloyd... It's Owen. Come on, mate. We've got to go to work.'He heard a groan and a giggle from inside the room; the groan Lloyd's, the giggle Kirsty's.'Not me, mate,' said Lloyd. 'I've got the day off.''b.l.o.o.d.y typical,' thought Owen. 'He drags me into town, gets me p.i.s.sed, and then he's got the day off. b.l.o.o.d.y typical.''Do you really really have to go to work?' the goth girl in pyjamas asked as he returned to the living room to put on his shoes. have to go to work?' the goth girl in pyjamas asked as he returned to the living room to put on his shoes.'Yeah, kind of,' said Owen. 'I'm a doctor.'Minutes later, he stepped out into the very bright and very cold light of day. He needed food, but there wasn't time to buy any. He also needed to find his bearings. He hadn't lived in Cardiff all that long, and much of the city was still new to him.Added to his geographical disorientation was the feeling of shame, as he made his way past pensioners pushing trolleys and commuters on their way to work. It was as if they all knew exactly exactly what he'd done the night before, as if they could see right through him. Or maybe they could just smell the booze as he walked past. Either way, it wasn't a good place to be. what he'd done the night before, as if they could see right through him. Or maybe they could just smell the booze as he walked past. Either way, it wasn't a good place to be.The bus journey was marred by screaming toddlers, which he really didn't need as that headache began to kick back in. He could have phoned in sick, of course, but that wasn't really an option. Doctors don't 'do' sick days. Doctors, according to unwritten law, have immune systems that can defeat any virus, and they most definitely do not have hangovers.He got to A&E at the hospital almost an hour after he had left the goth girl's house. His colleagues and so-called friends were waiting for him, all with grinning faces or pursed lips.'Tut, tut, tut... Where did you get to last night, you dirty stop-out?''Feeling a bit worse for wear?''Is that kebab sauce you've got down the front of you?''I think Dr Harper's going to need a lie down. Shame we need him over on 5. Grab a coffee, and put on a jacket. Can't have you walking around looking like a b.l.o.o.d.y tramp. You're coming with me.'The first patient he had to see was a young boy who had been hit by a car on his way to school. When his superior, Dr Balasubramanian (Dr Bala, for short), pulled the curtain aside, Owen felt his heart sink. He could deal with all aspects of the job; the blood, the injuries, the bodily fluids; but it was always hard when it was a child. Luckily he'd not had to deal with too many of them, and all the kids he'd dealt with had left the hospital breathing.'Dr Harper, this is Darren. Darren, this is Dr Harper. He's just going to take a look at you, to find out what we need to do to make you better.'Darren Lucas was nine years old and somebody's blue eyed boy, but now he was lying in a hospital bed, crying every time he moved. Just looking at him, Owen could tell he had a broken arm, perhaps a broken collar bone. They'd need to run him through a CT scan and a chest X-ray. He talked in hushed tones with Dr Bala, running through procedure, and Dr Bala nodded, and added a few suggestions, as he always did. When he'd finished the consultation, Owen turned to Darren.'You're gonna be OK, Darren,' he said, smiling softly. 'We'll have you playing football in no time.''I hate football,' said Darren, between sobs.'OK,' said Owen, 'well, whatever it is you like playing.'He leaned a little closer to the boy.'Listen, mate. I know it's scary and I know it hurts, but you're gonna be fine. OK? D'you trust me?'Darren Lucas nodded.'You're being very brave, Darren. You carry on like this and we might have to give you a medal.'Darren smiled, before an